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No Witnesses Yet In Our Window – Poetry Contest

Rain

The photo to the left is another in a series that captures perfectly the mood I’m getting from the story. That photo is also of and by Sophie Elliot. It’s powerful, emotional, evocative, and beautiful.

Please take a moment and explore the wonder that is the art and photography on her blog.

Get your poems in to The Witness In The Window! You’ve got about a day left, and not one single poem has yet been submitted! Conquer your procrastination!

Remember, the winner gets a guest post here at UDoJ on any topic of your choice, without edit.

Entries may be submitted until 11:59 PM EDT (GMT -4 BST -5) July 31 (TOMORROW NIGHT!!!), and voting will be between then and 11:59 PM EDT (GMT -4 BST -5) August 7.

Filed under: Literature, Poetry, Poetry Contests

One Response

  1. Deacon Barry says:

    Mr Pazoo

    Mr Pazoo, Mr Pazoo,
    Sneak to me
    Speak to me,
    What did you do?

    It’s Saturday night.
    It’s pouring with rain.
    Mummy and Daddy
    Are fighting again.
    Mummy’s best friend
    Is waiting outside.
    He hasn’t got clothes on.
    He’s trying to hide.
    Daddy was out.
    They thought I was sleeping.
    They kissed and they cuddled.
    I know. I was peeping.
    Mr Pazoo promptly
    Picked up the phone.
    In a voice sounding like me, said,
    “Daddy! Come home!”

    Mr Pazoo, Mr Pazoo,
    Sneak to me
    Speak to me,
    What did you do?

    Mr Pazoo
    Is my very best friend
    He says he’ll be close to me
    Right to the end
    His fingers are scissors
    His eyeballs are red
    He lives in a dungeon
    Right under my bed
    He makes lots of mischief.
    He says it’s a game.
    Whenever he’s naughty,
    I get the blame.
    But I know that he loves me
    He’ll always be true
    He’ll always protect me
    Will Mr Pazoo

    Mr Pazoo, Mr Pazoo,
    Sneak to me
    Speak to me,
    What did you do?

    Mummy and Daddy
    Are getting irate
    But the man in the garden’s
    The person I hate
    If he wasn’t here
    They wouldn’t get mad
    They wouldn’t shout at me
    I wouldn’t feel sad
    He’ll always protect me
    He knows what to do
    That man’s got a meeting
    With Mr Pazoo
    His fingers are scissors
    His eyeballs are red
    The man has his throat cut
    And now he is dead.

    Mr Pazoo, Mr Pazoo,
    Sneak to me
    Speak to me,
    WHAT DID YOU DO?

    Deacon,

    I moved your poem over to the contest thread.

    Kisses,
    Kate.

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